Wildflowers
by prouvaires
Summary: -slower, slower, we don't have time for love.- ArthurMorgana


_Slower, slower, we don't have time for love._

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the BBC TV show Merlin, or any of the characters therein.

**Rating: **T

**Words: **3,278

**A/N: **Set … oh, I don't know. In place of 2x11? You can decide!

**Song:** Run by Snow Patrol

--

The dream is awful. Worse than usual. She bolts upright in bed, her nerves screaming right along with her mouth. She's sobbing as she runs blindly for the door, not pausing to find a robe or slippers. Her bare feet pound against the stone as she sprints down the corridors, the tears on her cheeks like salty diamonds as they course freely.

She finds the right door, and pushes her way straight through it. She doesn't knock. (she never does). He's out of bed in a second.

"Who are you?" he challenges, but she's halfway across the room by the time he's finished the sentence.

"Arthur," she cries, gasping out his name as she collapses into his arms. (he won't call the guards, she knows. He never does.)

"Morgana?" he replies worriedly, holding her up as she pushes her face against his chest, her tears wetting his skin. "What is it?" he asks, pulling her face up to study. Her skin is so pale she seems like a corpse, and she's miles away as her eyes gaze in terror at something he can't see.

"Morgana, tell me what's wrong," he commands, using his crown prince voice, and she drags her focus away from the fear to the present.

"You were dead," she chokes out, her hands clutching at his chest, around his neck, at his hair. "You were dead and the courtyard was full of candlelight and … it was my fault …" she trails off, hiding her face again. He strokes her hair gently as her shoulders shake, and pulls her down onto the bed.

"It was just a dream," he reassures her as she almost climbs into his lap, her hands fastened around his neck as she buries her face in the juncture of his neck and shoulder (he smells so safe this helps more than he could ever know).

"It was so _real_," she whispers, her voice jumping with a sob halfway through her sentence. "The last time I had such a dream you nearly _died_, Arthur."

"The Questing Beast," he recalls suddenly, and remembers her similar wild behaviour that morning, when he had been so embarrassed in front of his knights. "You dreamt this before?"

"Not this," she tries to explain, her voice muffled by his shoulder. "This was worse."

He rocks her carefully, twisting the ends of her hair in his fingers, murmuring softly until she has almost regained control. She pulls her face away from him gradually, and then suddenly is on her feet, backing away.

"I'm so sorry," she says, her green eyes wild as her tearstained cheeks flame with embarrassment. "I shouldn't have disturbed you. Forget I said anything."

She tries to flee, but his hand snakes surely around her wrist and holds her back. (That simple touch thrills her whole body, and she trembles once more at the thought of him being taken from her.)

"Morgana," he says firmly, pulling her back down next to him on the bed. "Don't be ridiculous. If you were scared, of course you should have come to me."

This confuses her. Surely he means call Gwen, or Gaius – even Merlin. She _knows _he hates his sleep being disturbed.

"But …" she begins uncertainly, and he sighs and takes her hands in his, rubbing circles on the pulse at her wrist with his thumb.

"Morgana, you are one of the most important people in my life. You know that, don't you?"

She nods self-consciously, allowing her hair to fall in a curtain around her face. He reaches for it gently, caressing her cheek as he tucks a lock behind her ear. She sighs softly. (And can't he _see_?)

"I'm sorry, my lord," she says, and he looks a little startled by her formal use of his title. "I should not have disturbed you. Forgive me?" she means it to be formal, cold, distant; but instead she sounds a little like she's begging (and she's not, honest).

"I would forgive you anything," he promises, and his eyes are doing that smouldering thing and so she shuts her eyes and thinks of Guinevere and clutches at the skirt of her nightgown to stop her hands from reaching for him. He takes her hands of his own accord, and presses a soft kiss to her knuckles (oh, _God_).

"Arthur," she says, suddenly fierce as she pulls her hands out of his and places them on both sides of his face, directing his eyes right into hers (did they always have flecks of silver?)

"I saw you die at _my hand. _I did something terrible. You should hate me."

He chuckles, and his lips pull up in that (adorable) smirk.

"Come now, surely you're old enough to distinguish between a dream and reality?"

She removes her hands and presses her own face into them, despair rolling over her as she agonises over the choice she has to make. It seems it must be her life for his – if she tells him the truth, Uther will have her killed, but Arthur will live. She doesn't think she's ready to die (is anyone ever?) but she's not ready to forfeit Arthur's life for her own.

"It's not a dream," she tells him, her voice muffled where it presses into her hands. "Sometimes … sometimes what I see in my dreams is real. It happens. I saw the Questing Beast, I saw Sophia try to drown you, I saw the Black Knight."

He is totally silent. "You realise how much you risk telling me this?" he breathes eventually, his voice husky (and she wishes he wouldn't do that because he sounds _so _beautiful). She nods, not looking at him still.

"Morgana," he says, putting one hand on the small of her back and lifting her eyes up to meet his with the other. "Thank you," he tells her, his eyes clear and firm in their sincerity. "It took a great deal of courage to tell me that."

She stares at him in wordless surprise (she never expected this). She twists her hands in her lap as he puts an arm around her waist and drags her up to bed, to lean against the headboard. He looks almost as surprised as she does at his actions, but masks it by shuffling around awkwardly.

"Thought you might be cold," he explains, gesturing to her thin nightdress, and suddenly he's back to the blunt, insensitive Arthur she knows (and just might love). She slides under the covers anyway (and his scent surrounds her and fills her up until she feels she might burst).

"Thank you," she breathes, and he gets in next to her.

"I won't tell my father," he promises, and takes her hand again. (And she's not sure if her means about her magic or about her being in his bed.) "I swear on my honour as knight and prince of Camelot."

She smiles at him, and his (pretty) eyes dart down to her lips and then to her eyes.

"Morgana," he begins, and his voice is husky again and she's got her eyes closed, thinking only of Gwen. But then his lips press against hers and she loses herself.

"I … wait, Arthur, stop!" she gasps, her hand in his hair grasping to tug him away. She pants for breath as she scrambles backwards.

"I'm sorry, Morgana, I thought – "

"What about Gwen, Arthur?!" she cries, and throws back the bedclothes to run from the room. He follows her (of course he does).

"Morgana, I'm sorry, please – listen to me – "

They're in the corridor now, and she's still running. "No, Arthur. I can't do that to her, no matter how I feel."

"How you feel … then you admit you feel something?" he challenges, catching her wrist and drawing her to him. She swings a slap at his face, but maddeningly he catches her hand and clutches it as a hostage against his chest.

"I feel nothing but guilt!" she exclaims, and narrows her eyes at him in fury as her chest heaves. "You swore to Gwen you loved her – she's your one true love, remember? It's your destiny."

He releases her, then. She stumbles backwards as he collapses back against the stone wall, running a tired hand through his hair.

"Don't you think it's about time we started forging our own destinies?" he asks quietly, despairingly, his eyes smouldering again and begging her to come back to him. But she just shakes her head.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, and then turns to flee down the corridor.

She cries for the rest of the night. When Gwen opens the door next morning, bright and cheery as usual, Morgana cannot face her.

"Not this morning," she commands as the maid moves to help her out of bed. "Take the day off."

"It's okay," Gwen replies with a smile. "I don't need – "

"Go, Gwen," Morgana orders. Gwen looks a little hurt, and Morgana can't help the perverse stab of vicious pleasure that courses through her. Gwen leaves quietly, her good mood vanished, and Morgana lets her head fall back against the pillows. His face and his voice and his scent fill her head until she is dancing in a world empty of everyone but Arthur. (It's a world she wants to live in forever.)

She falls asleep eventually, and her dreams are filled with no-one but him and a lingering scent of burning candles.

She wakes later in the afternoon, and pulls on the nearest dress she can find, brushing her hair quickly before pulling it back into a plait and leaving her room. She bumps into Merlin heading down a corridor, his arms overfull of flasks and vials.

"How are you?" she asks as she relieves him of several precariously-balanced bottled.

"You don't have to – " he begins, but she just smiles and cuts him off.

"Nonsense. I don't have anywhere to be." When he looks set to protest, she begins walking again, flashing him her prettiest smile. "Allow me the pleasure of your company," she entreats, and he sighs.

"You should know better than to manipulate us fragile men like that," he tells her, and she makes a noise of derision.

"I hardly think you're fragile," she argues, and his lips pull down in worry as she adds, "Women are more so."

"Yeah, about that…" he starts, looking awkward as they enter the first room on his list and he sets a vial full of a purplish liquid down on the table in the empty room. "I found Gwen crying in her house earlier. She was holding a letter in her hands, and there was this white rose on the table. Do you know anything about her and Arth…" he trails off because Morgana has abandoned her armful of medicines on the table and set off at a furious march down the corridor.

He follows her at a run, almost dropping his potions. "Morgana, what – "

"I'm going to kill him," she forces out through gritted teeth as she reaches Arthur's door and slams it open, only to find the room empty (and she's never been more undecided as to whether to be relieved or disappointed).

"He's with the council," Merlin points out helpfully, and she whirls, fuming.

"He's such an idiot," she snarls angrily, storming off in a swirl of green skirts as she marches back to her own room. Merlin is still following her, possibly hopeful of an explanation to all the strange events.

The familiar-unfamiliar scent reaches her at the bottom of the stairs that lead to her room, and she takes them at a run, throwing open her door to find every surface in her room covered with flowers. Red, yellow and purple tulips, along with poppies, lavender and other wildflowers. But mostly red tulips. Their scent, unremarkable when they are alone, has combined to make a heady heaven in her room (and although she knows it shouldn't it makes her want to cry with happiness).

"Wow," Merlin comments from behind her, and moves past her to pluck a note from amongst the tulips on her dresser.

"Give that here," she orders, and he hands it over quickly, obviously fearful of her wrath.

_I'm sorry. I'll be waiting. I meant every word last night._

There is a small dragon drawn at the bottom – the symbol of the Pendragon family. But, really, she knew the culprit as soon as she smelled the tulips for the first time.

--

"_Arthur," the ten-year-old girl laughs as the blonde-haired boy runs away from her through the field of long grass and wildflowers._

"_Come on, Morgana, you're so slow," he taunts from up ahead, and she puts on a burst of speed to catch up with him, tackling him from behind and knocking them both in a flail of limbs and purple skirts to roll around amongst the flowers._

"_Ouch," he complains as he pushes her away, pulling his sleeve back to reveal a bruise forming on his forearm. She presses her hand against her mouth to hide the smile, and he turns to glare at her. The effect is somewhat spoiled by the fact that his blue eyes are crinkled and dancing with laughter._

"_You're going to pay for that," he threatens as he leaps for her. She giggles and flees. The roles are now reversed – he chasing as she leads. Eventually she runs out of breath. He's fitter than her, so he easily catches up as she flops down in the grass, the euphoric scent of the wildflowers making her almost giddy. He pins her down quickly, and despite her wriggling she can't shift him._

"_You're fat," she whines as he presses her wrists into the ground. He just laughs, and then suddenly his hand looms close to her face. She recoils, and he just laughs as he tucks a red tulip behind her ear. He lets her up, and she reaches up to feel the tulip gently._

"_Most girls want pretty white roses," she points out validly, and the eleven-year-old shrugs. _

"_They shouldn't. White roses stand for a heart that doesn't know how to love."_

_She laughs, then, for all the times she's seen him give a pretty girl at court a white rose._

"_And red tulips?" she asks innocently, fingering the one tucked against her dark hair. He smiles._

"_Undying love," he professes seriously._

"_Ew, Arthur, you're not in love with me!" she protests with a laugh, and he's laughing too. "That's disgusting!"_

_They both chuckle as they lie there amongst the flowers, the daylight fading slowly above them._

"_Arthur …" she says quietly as the sun descends out of sight in a blaze of red and gold._

"_Yes?" he replies sleepily as he rolls over onto his stomach, tickling her nose with a stalk of grass. She bats it away._

"_I'm always going to remember this, I think. This smell will always make me remember how happy I was here, with you."_

_He chuckles. "Morgana, if you're in love with me, that's so revolting."_

_She screws her nose up in disgust. "Ew, no. I just meant … you make me feel … peaceful. Help me forget my father's death."_

_He laughs. "Well, you make me feel peaceful, too."_

_They are quiet for a long time, and they hear the nurse calling for them in the distance. They stand up and brush themselves down, and he takes her hand in hers to lead her back through the darkness to the horses._

"_It wouldn't be so bad, loving you," she says absently as they get nearer the nurse and guards. "I think I could bear it. So long as you always gave me pretty flowers."_

_He laughs again. She likes making him laugh. _

"_Well, if I ever fall in love with you, I'll fill up your _whole _room with flowers!"_

_They look at each other briefly, and then burst into more laughter._

"_Imagine, us being in love with each other," they announce to the nurse as they reach her. She gives them a surprised look._

"_It would be so strange," Morgana adds, beaming as Arthur boosts her up onto her horse, ignoring the guards offering to do it for him. He mounts his own horse, still chuckling._

"_You would have to be nicer to me," Arthur says as they set the horses back on the road to Camelot. "No more calling me fat."_

"_But you are," she says, blinking innocently, and he glares for a moment, but his heart's not in it. "I think I'll be waiting a long time for a room full of flowers," she confides to him, and they're both still laughing as Uther comes down the steps of his castle to greet them._

--

Morgana clutches the note in her hand, her heart thudding erratically. She had almost forgotten.

"Morgana?" Merlin asks softly from behind her, and she shakes her head jerkily to bring herself back to the present.

"When will Arthur be finished?" she asks him, turning to face his direction.

"He should be out in a couple of minutes," Merlin informs her, and she picks up a red tulip, caressing the petals delicately.

"Will you tell him I want to see him as soon as you find him?"

Merlin nods, and his face shows hints of betrayal as he leaves. He is unhappy for Gwen, that much is obvious, but Morgana has no time for them now. Besides, Arthur is right. It's about time people start making their own destinies, and Gwen liked Merlin better before that tournament anyway. (They're far better suited to each other.)

She doesn't have to wait long. Arthur crashes through her door, his hair falling into his face as his mail clinks with his movements. She's still holding the tulip, and he just stands and stares at her. (And won't he just hurry up and kiss her already?).

"I remember," she murmurs eventually, and he shuts the door behind himself as he moves closer.

"Do you still want me to leave?" he asks warily, his walk as sinuously graceful as a wildcat.

"You shouldn't have sent Gwen the rose," she announces, dropping all pretences. "She loves far too hard."

"It is me who is incapable of love – of loving her," he explains. "Besides, she will not know the meaning of the flower."

"I still don't know – " she begins, but he kisses her before she can finish her sentence.

"Yes, you do," he replies huskily when his lips release hers, and his blue-silver eyes are filled with nothing but love and desire as he stares at her. She sighs, loops her arms around his neck and kisses him again.

There is a knock at the door, and he pulls away from her quickly as Merlin rushes in.

"The point of knocking is to wait for permission to enter," Arthur snaps, and the servant almost falls over his own feet in surprise at the real irritation in the prince's tone.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sire, but the king wants you," Merlin says quickly, and then flees, obviously wondering what has made everyone so short-tempered today.

"I'll talk to him after he has told me off for leaving the council early," Arthur promises her, tucking the tulip behind her ear. She smiles, and pulls another from the bed, pressing it into his hand. They don't truly need words (they have the world).

"I love you," he whispers against her lips, and she smiles as she kisses him.

"I love you too," she replies as he turns to leave. He kisses her fingertips, and then disappears out of the door. She sinks back onto the flower-covered bed, the thick, intoxicating scent rising and enveloping her in heaven.

(Wildflowers have their own kind of magic.)

--

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